


Cold November Rain

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Drama, Post-War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Literature, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-07
Updated: 2008-09-07
Packaged: 2018-10-26 13:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10787586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Pansy is counseling a patient who lost his wife to the Seelie Court. Duty keeps him tied to a memory, despite his desire to move on. Pansy is about to discover that duty is a harsh mistress. A Dresden-verse crossover.





	Cold November Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
> **Author's notes:**
> 
> The interpretation of the Sidhe in this story is borrowed liberally from Jim Butcher's Dresden Files. Ciircee's “Byron” http://www.sugarquill.net/read.php?storyid=160&chapno=1 forms the back story that Ron relates to Pansy.
> 
>  

Pansy crossed her arms in front of herself in a vain attempt to conserve body heat against the cold air.  She was looking forward to going back inside, but needed the air to clear her head before her next appointment. She looked down to street level and saw him coming. His long coat was open, his head naked to the weather, and his red hair was plastered flat.  She smiled to herself. Despite the fact that he was deliberately exposing himself to the cold and the wet, his strides were long and purposeful. He wasn’t wandering listlessly; he was having a good day. Finally, she could stand it no longer. She stepped forward to the railing and called down to him, “Ron, get in out of the rain before you take chill.”

 

He looked up at her and spread his arms as if to embrace the rain. His smile was broad and infectious. He closed his eyes and let the rain wash over him for a minute before he responded. “Fear not, fair maiden. It is the chill of winter that chases away the pall of summer; and nothing lasts forever, even cold November rain.”

 

“You’re a goof,” she called down to him.

 

“And you’re beautiful.”

 

“Thank you,” she said and felt herself blush. She shook her head and went back inside to warm up. “You’ve got to stop encouraging him,” she said out loud to no one in particular.

She slid her chair over closer to the chair Ron preferred to sit in and made sure her pen and notepad were handy. She stood in front of her desk and affected her best Dr. Parkinson stance as she waited for her patient.

 

“Hiya, Panse,” Ron said as he walked into her office. She smiled in spite of herself, and hugged him back in a very _un-_ Dr. Parkinson kind of way.

 

“I see you’re doing well today. What’s going on?”

 

“It’s raining,” he replied. He kicked off his shoes and flopped into the chair.

 

“This is London.  That tends to happen.” She arched an eyebrow at him as she felt his foot slide along the outside of her shoe, then his toe press against the back of her ankle. “Why so much better this week than last?” She kicked off her pump and pressed her foot against his.

 

“The rain keeps the Sidhe away. They can’t stand running water, it draws off their energies.”

 

“Have you had any problems with them lately?” This was the reason Ron had finally come to her; she was the only doctor in England who knew the truth of the existence of magic and the Sidhe Courts.

 

“Well, no; but anything that makes a sidhe, especially the leanansidhe, miserable makes me happy.”

 

“I see,” she replied, withdrawing her foot slightly. “Ron, you need to stop defining your happiness by other people’s misery.”

 

“I know.” He sat up and leaned forward. “It’s just hard sometimes.” He steepled his fingers and looked up at her. “But it’s better than it used to be, thanks to you.”  She leaned forward, a more intimately friendly gesture, and waited for him to continue. “Yeah,” he said, blushing slightly. He seemed to draw a bit of composure back around himself. “Hey, I’ve got something for you.” He pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I have season tickets to the National Ballet, and I was wondering if you might like to go.”

 

 

Pansy stopped herself before she actually reached out and accepted the envelope, but only just. She knew she shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t accept his offer. After all, he was her patient. It was bad enough that she let him flirt with her (and even worse that she had encouraged him a few times); but to go out with him was beyond the pale.

 

Her analytical side realized she was rationalizing before she’d even started it though. It wasn’t like she did this with any of her other patients. Ron was different somehow. His generally upbeat nature was just suppressed right now. He was a successful and distinguished man; she was a successful and distinguished woman. They shared a common background and common interests. He was devilishly handsome, the years serving only to solidify his features and give him gravitas. Last, but certainly not least, he was one of very few men his age who were single by circumstance, not because of some serious character deficiency.

 

“I’d love to go,” she said before she could stop herself. Having already lost the battle, she conceded the war as well. “What time will you pick me up?”

 

The look of shock that wiped the smile from his face made her doubt a year’s worth of assessment.

 

“I, I can’t go with you Pansy. It’s not that I, it’s just that, well, it uh, it just wouldn’t be proper; I’m still in mourning.” If she hadn’t been so shocked by the pronouncement, the irony of his statement about impropriety would have made her laugh.

 

“I’m sorry, Ron. I thought…” she trailed off, acutely feeling her embarrassment. “I thought that you, that is, that a period of mourning is normally only a year.” She could almost see the wall going up around him as he turned slightly away from her.

 

“I… imposed a different one on myself. A month for every year we were together.”

 

She quickly did the math. “So, another year then, on top of the year and a half that’s already passed.”

 

“Yeah, about that.”

 

Pansy noted with clinical detachment that his expression did not match his words or his body language. She scrutinized him, trying to figure out what was at odds in his demeanor. Despite the fact that he had turned his head away, he had reached out and put his hand on the arm of her chair and his foot hooked around the back of her ankle, as though afraid to let go. His voice had lacked the conviction of his statements. She hadn’t heard him stutter like that in months.

 

“Why so long?” She didn’t apologize for prying, it was her job.

 

“Hermione gave me all the best years of her life, it’s the least I could do to honor her.” Seeming a little self conscious, he withdrew his foot from hers and put his hand back in his lap.

 

“But,” she left it hanging, having inferred his conflict.  He looked at her like a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar, and she grimaced inwardly. “Now you want to move on, but you’re afraid that if you do you’re betraying her memory.”

 

“Are you asking me as Pansy, or as Dr. Parkinson?”

 

Silently, she cursed herself.  “I’m going to ask you as Dr. Parkinson.” She sighed as Ron frowned and sat up straighter.  She gave him a long minute, but there was no response.  “Is there somebody you’re interested in, romantically speaking?”

 

“I don’t know if I should tell you that, Dr. Parkinson. If she found out it could make things… complicated.”

 

“I see. Do you want to talk to somebody else about this?” She was afraid he would say yes, and almost as afraid he would say no.

 

Ron crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair. “Dr. Parkinson, have I ever told you the story of how my wife and I got together?”

 

“No, Ron. I’ve never heard the story.”

 

“Well, I’d known Hermione for a few years, five to be exact. And one day it just hit me that there wasn’t anyone who held my interest like she did. Why are you smiling, Dr. Parkinson?”

 

“So you were what, sixteen at that time?” Ron nodded. “And your romantic interest was entirely based on interest and friendship; nothing else?”

 

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

 

“Because teen-age boys aren’t that rational. They only pretend to be years later.” She smiled at him, and he returned it.

 

“Well, there was that incident when I walked into the loo as she was coming out of the shower. That might have had something to do with it.” Pansy nodded and let him continue his story. “So, like I said, she was one of my best friends. I was nervous about it. I mean, I didn’t want to lose a friend because I thought I had a crush on her all of a sudden.”

 

“How did you tell her?”

 

“Well, it took a long time.” Ron told her about sending unsigned poems and love letters. About how it had almost come out in front of his entire family, but Ginny had somehow deflected it. After that, nobody, not even Hermione would believe him when admitted to being the letter writer. He talked about how he’d spent a year writing letters to her anonymously even though he saw her every day. Finally, he told her about how Hermione had discovered an unsent letter and the quill he used in his book bag. “At first she was pretty mad; she thought I’d done it as a joke. When she realized I wasn’t pulling her leg and I hadn’t done it to be mean, well everything changed. She helped me figure it out, taught me how to love her while still being her friend.”

 

“You think she taught you a lot about relationships?” She’d gotten so caught up in his story that she’d forgotten what had gotten them on the original subject.

 

“I used to think so, but I can still make some pretty dumb mistakes sometimes.” She followed his glance down to the table and a white envelope with the National Ballet logo on it.

 

“Oh.”  At the moment she didn’t feel all that smart herself. She was saved by a beeping sound that came from Ron. He checked the watch he was wearing and stood up.

 

“Sorry, I’ve got another appointment I have to get to.” He shrugged into his coat. “Hey Pansy, I’m sorry about the misunderstanding. I’d still like you to have the tickets if you’re interested.  If I take them home, they’re just going to collect dust.”

 

She stood up and straightened her skirt. “I’d like that, thank you. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable today.”

 

“It’s okay, it’s your job; and sometimes I need somebody to make me uncomfortable.” She reached out to shake his hand, he responded by bringing it to his mouth and brushing his lips against the backs of her fingers. “I’ll see you next week, Pansy.”

 

She could tell by the smile on his face that she was blushing. “I look forward to it.” She walked him to the door and saw him out. After he was gone, she banged her head against the door, “Bloody brilliant, Pansy, just brilliant.” With a sigh she returned to her desk. She had fifteen minutes till her next appointment, a new patient named Lea. She spent the time on her treadmill trying to clear her mind. She really needed to see about getting Ron to take end of the day appointments. Then if things ran over she could just; she arrested that train of thought before it got out of the station.

 

When she opened the door of her office to the common waiting room she shared with three other doctors, the smell of wild flowers assaulted her senses. The room also seemed brighter than usual. She looked around and saw a woman sitting near the window, staring out at the rain with a look of disgust.

 

“Lea?” she called. “Please come in. Lea Nansidhe, is that…”  She broke off and swore to herself as she realized what she had just done.

 

“Fey?” the woman asked without turning from the window. “Yes, it is.”

 

Pansy started to panic. The sidhe were notoriously capricious, and inviting one in was tantamount to offering them anything they wanted. Instinctively she stepped back across her threshold, though it offered no protection now.  As she watched the woman turned to face her, and her blood ran cold.

 

“Mab’s scepter,” Pansy swore. The woman’s beautiful face contorted into a ghastly visage as she hissed and drew away. A member of the summer court; her suspicions confirmed, she ran back across her office and began to rifle through her desk. A year before, when Ron had first come to her, he had given her an iron pentacle necklace with the admonition that the sidhe were to be always kept at arm’s length and that the iron was a sure way to do that. She hadn’t thought much of it then, but was glad now she hadn’t thrown it out.

 

“I don’t think so,” the woman said in a calm voice. Her arm raised, palm up, fingers pointing at Pansy. The potted plants beside her desk began to grow at an alarming rate, their vines and branches stretching towards Pansy. “Sit down, Pansy, before you get hurt.” Her chair slid forward into the back of her legs, knocking her down into it.

 

“Wh-who are you?” Pansy stammered. There was something familiar about her features, something she should know; but they were too cold, too remote, too haughty for her to put a proper identity on them.

 

“You know who I am.” The woman turned her back to Pansy and walked over to a small table in her client area. “Ballet tickets,” she commented as she picked up the envelope. “It seems a lifetime since I went to the ballet. ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’, one of my favorites.” The woman turned back to face her. “A gift from my husband, I take it.”

 

“No, you can’t be.” Pansy stared at the woman. She could see it all now, the eyes, the hair woven in with bits of flowers and leaves, the beauty of youth restored. “You, you’re dead.”

 

“Not exactly,” she replied as she perched on the edge of Pansy’s desk, “but a sufficient explanation for my husband and family. I need you to do something for me, Dr. Parkinson.”

 

She couldn’t take it anymore, the woman’s haughty voice, the cold way she referred to Ron as though he was little more than an accoutrement or seneschal. “Do you have any idea what your death did to him?” Pansy shouted, jumping up out of her chair. Their faces were mere inches apart. “Do you even care?”

 

The pealing of thunder was explosive as bolts of lightning struck the balconies and sidewalks just outside Pansy’s office. The windows shattered and sprayed glass across the office, mighty torrents of wind and rain lashed at the furniture and wall hangings. Pansy tried to dive for cover but found herself unable to move.

 

Hermione turned to fully face Pansy, the air around her crackled with power and authority. “Look into my eyes, child.” Pansy tried to look away, fearing that a soul gaze instituted by a sidhe might very well unhinge her. It was useless though – Hermione’s cinnamon brown eyes swallowed her, and she felt like she was falling.

 

The weight of what was happening was like a sledge hammer to her psyche. She felt pain unlike any she had ever known. On one side was her children, her husband, and her family; on the other stood countless others: wizards, faerie folk, magical beings uncountable and unknown. Her only options, kill or be killed, leave behind her life and family or sentence the world of magic to chaos and darkness. Then came pain beyond that, a pain that was remote but acute. She was directly experiencing the pain of another at her loss. Then again, and once more, each a little different. Finally, she was assaulted by a pain that threatened to stop her heart and smother her lungs. Behind it all was a feeling of love so deep and profound that Pansy couldn’t even reconcile it to anything in her own experience. Finally, she felt a sense of relief, a brief surge of joy, and then a jolt of heartbreak as it was shut off like a box being closed. She could sense somewhere beyond the pain that there were other things she was being shielded from. Then she was being yanked away and shoved back into her own body.

 

She was only vaguely aware of the chair she was sitting in, but surprisingly aware of the tears streaming down her face. “Wha—what was that?”

 

“That,” Hermione replied, “was my ‘not caring.’ That is what I feel every time one of my children misses me, every time my husband drinks himself to sleep or visits my grave. That brief joy was something I felt before I came here today. It was Ron’s joy when you said you would go to the ballet with him, and the denial he forced on himself.”

 

“You… feel all that?” Pansy could scarcely imagine what it would be like to deal with that. She wiped at her eyes with the sleeves of her shirt.

 

“And more.”

 

“What were the other things? I could sense other feelings: duty, responsibility, longing, even joy; what was all that?”

 

Hermione smiled, her teeth flawless and brilliant, her eyes sparkling. “That’s what I like about you, Dr. Parkinson. You’re not stupid.” Hermione walked over to the client area and righted two chairs. “Come, let us sit and talk like women.”

 

With more than a little trepidation, Pansy followed the woman and sat down in the chair. “What is it that you want from me?”

 

“I want you to do what it is you already want to do. I want you to help yourself.”

 

That made her wary. “No sidhe offers a bargain freely, what do you get out of it?”

 

“The freedom to do as I must.”

 

“So what is it you want me to help you get free from?”

 

Hermione frowned for the first time that Pansy had seen. It was like watching the sun go behind a cloud, though still not as black as the pain she had seen a few moments ago.  “My husband.”

 

“What, how do you mean?”

 

Hermione toyed with the gold band she wore, a filigree ring of intricate Celtic knots. “Ron and I are bound up in ways that conventional wedding vows can’t comprehend. Even most wizards and witches are not as tightly bound as we are. But it also means that I am bound to him so long as he declares himself bound to me.”

 

“You need him to renounce his period of mourning.”

 

“And put away his ring. It is his tie to me, and I to him.”

 

“Why not just put yours away? Wouldn’t that break the bond?”

 

“It is not a bond to be broken. We must release each other from it.”

 

“Oh, I see. Why not just explain it to him?” The look Hermione gave her brought crashing back the feeling of the soul gaze. “Right, never mind.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She could see Ron’s face in her mind, the brief flash of a smile before he closed it off. Behind him she could sense the duty Hermione carried. The decision was not difficult, but carrying it out could be.

 

“I will help you, Hermione.”

 

“Thank you, Pansy. I have but one more imposition to make on you. I need it done before Winter Solstice.”

 

“A month? I don’t know, his affection for you is very deep—“

 

“As is yours for him,” Hermione interrupted.

 

“What?” Pansy made a deliberate effort to close her mouth. “How do you?” but she stopped when Hermione tapped the side of her eye.

 

“Don’t worry, Pansy, your secrets are safe. I know you for who you are. There is nothing to be ashamed of.” Hermione gave her an almost wicked smile. “Ron has that effect on a lot of women.” Pansy felt her cheeks flame with color. Hermione’s expression changed to one of panic. “Morrigan preserve me.” There was a rending sound, like fabric being torn and Hermione launched herself through a hole in the air and was gone.

 

 

The door to her office burst open. “Pansy!” She looked up to see Ron standing in her doorway. Water dripped from his coat and hair, a black iron triangle dangled from his hand on a chain. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

 

Pansy closed her eyes, the feeling of loss and longing as sharp now as it had been when she looked into Hermione’s eyes. She shivered as a breeze blew through the broken windows. She opened her eyes to see Ron coming toward her, moving debris from his path. “I’m okay, Ron. It was just a bit of storm.”

 

“No it wasn’t. It was sidhe magic; the air stinks of it, like wildflowers grown amok.”

 

“How did you know?”

 

“I always know when they’re near those I… I just know.” She noted that he was rubbing at his left hand and ring finger.

 

“What’s it feel like?”

 

Ron looked down. “It feels like,” he whispered, “like when Hermione used to walk into the room. There have been times I thought it was her.” His eyes and voice hardened, “but then there’s always the taint of their presence, that sickeningly sweet summer smell.”

 

She reached out and took his hand in her own. “Ron, we need to talk.” She brought his hand to her mouth and kissed his fingers. “Let’s go someplace warm and quiet.” She turned and led him from the rubble strewn office for a brief walk in the cold November rain.


End file.
